Three Cigarette Problem
by infinitesparkle
Summary: Sherlock has cigarettes and he has needles, but he's almost out of cigarettes. Moriarty has cigarettes and he has razor blades, but he's almost out of cigarettes, too. He also has a very pregnant Mrs. Watson tied to a chair. Where the hell is John? Rated T. Anything could happen.
1. First cigarette

It was just four weeks until Mary's due date and John knew that there was a problem.

The problem was not with Mary, or the baby; they were fine, even when John had told Mary he'd have to be away unexpectedly for a few days. The problem was Sherlock. As Mary's pregnancy had progressed Sherlock had become defensive and withdrawn, and today John had discovered that Sherlock had just smoked_ three_ cigarettes.

Not a disaster in the scheme of things, but a symptom John was loath to ignore.

John had been keeping a count of the contents of the slipper ever since he'd discovered it. Every now and then, when there was a case that had been baffling Sherlock for too long, or when Donovan had said something particularly cruel to Sherlock, or when there was no case at all, John would count, and there would be one less cigarette in the slipper.

However, today it wasn't just one.

Three cigarettes gone.

Only three remaining.

"Are you sure you're OK?" He asked Sherlock again, as he stood in 221B, with his bags, on his way to the station. Sherlock was visibly riled this time, and John didn't have time to press the issue.

John went to pick his phone up from where it had been on charge, but Sherlock had apparently unplugged John's phone in order to plug in his own in. John needed a phone in case Mary went into labour, but his battery was completely dead.

Sherlock's was fully charged. John was running late.

It was with strong reservations that John took the tube to Paddington for his connection.

…

Sherlock stood watching the clock with a fluttering feeling in his stomach. He'd been desperate for some head-space lately, after all the baby talk. But now that John wasn't there, Sherlock felt a twinge of nerves as he knew that, without John, he was a ship without a rudder.

The minute hand ticked round until it got to the 3, indicating that John's train was leaving, and Sherlock knew he was completely on his own.

In a daze he swept some of the clutter from the table to one side and then started to unload the contents of his coat pockets into the space.

Packets.

Needles.

Earlier that week John had told Sherlock that he was going to be away for a while, and the thoughts in Sherlock's mind had quickly darkened. He would be on his own for a long time. He was going to be... _bored_.

Very bored.

He needed something to make the time more interesting. He needed supplies. Not that he was intending to use them. It would simply be good to have them there.

Just to give himself a challenge.

Just to give himself something to think about while John was away.

Having the supplies there was comforting, like an old friend. And exciting. It would be interesting to see how strong his will-power was now. It _must_ b_e_ strong, he thought. It had been so long since he had done anything.

_So long._

So while John had been at 221B counting the contents of Sherlock's slipper, Sherlock had been visiting the chemist, holding a shadowy meeting with one of his homeless network, and slipping the items deftly into the generous pockets of his coat.

…

Back at 221B, Sherlock emptied the contents of his slipper onto the table next to the other supplies. He was surprised just how few cigarettes he had left.

Sherlock laid his cigarettes out on the table in a row, and one of the syringes next to them.

Three cigarettes, one needle.

Sherlock parked his mind in that neutral, dissociated space that he reserved for those times when he knew he was going to be on his own for a while. It was going to be an interesting evening.

Sherlock lit the first cigarette.

…

Moriarty studied the figure in front of him with hatred and fascination. The woman's arms and legs were bound to the chair with gaffer tape.

But there was something wrong with the picture.

Mary Watson: she looked uncomfortable and put out, but she didn't look _afraid_, and Moriarty was not expecting that. He was expecting Mary Watson to be ordinary; like John or anyone else. She should be crying; pleading and terrified; but instead she looked... actually she looked _furious_.

Moriarty couldn't have asked for anything better. This was going to be more fun than he had imagined.

_Just trying to have some fun._

"You better hope Sherlock gets here soon", Moriarty purred at Mary, disdainfully.

As he spoke he laid three cigarettes out on the desk between him and Mary.

Mary regarded him coolly, giving nothing away. "What do you _want_?" She spat, not without a little disdain herself.

Moriarty smiled at her gleefully.

"What do I want? Well, not _you_, anyway", he said dismissively, "You're not important. But I think you know that. You're just a means to an end."

Moriarty paused to compose a text. He pressed the send button dramatically, shooting Mary a satisfied smile. "Well, that should bring him running along; running to save the damsel in distress."

Moriarty got up and slowly walked around Mary's chair, drinking her in from every angle. He was impeccably dressed, his expression flickering unprompted between intense darkness and amusement.

"Well", he said, "since you're here, how about a little game while we're waiting?" He put his face really close to her hair and whispered "I like games."

"I don't really feel like playing", Mary replied dismissively.

"Oh, you don't have a choice.

"You know, Mary Watson. I can torture you. I can do anything I like to you. _And I would like to_", he said, his face close to hers. "I could crush you right now, Mary Watson, but that would be too EASY. I could SKIN you, and your ordinary husband, and your ordinary _baby_. But the trouble is... once I start, it might be hard to stop." he whispered the next bit into her ear. "And these are meant for Sherlock, really."

Moriarty returned to his place in front of her now, toying with a little white box that he had pulled from his trouser pocket. Slowly he slid a small rectangular object from the box and held it in his palm where Mary could see it, returning the box to his pocket with his other hand.

Taking his time, he unwrapped the object and held it between his thumb and finger on the blunt sides of the rectangle, admiring the shine and the jagged pattern of the gap in the middle. Then he placed it on the desk next to the cigarettes.

Three cigarettes. One razor blade.

"You better hope Sherlock gets here soon", Moriarty's eyes were pools of chaotic darkness as he spoke with no trace of amusement now. "…because I have cigarettes. And I have razor blades. But I'm running out of cigarettes. And…" he added slowly "...I get So. Very. Bored."

He gave her a wide shark-like smile and picked up the first cigarette, striking a match and watching the flare settle before lighting it.

Moriarty held the cigarette in one hand, and the still-lit match aloft in the other, letting the flame burn down and down to his fingers, the light glinting in his eyes as the flame approached his skin. Finally, only when the heat seemed impossibly close, did he blow the flame out.

Moriarty took a leisurely inhale of his cigarette before blowing the smoke luxuriously in Mary's direction.

"It's going to be an interesting evening", he said, with menace.


	2. Second cigarette

Sherlock peered through his microscope at the contents of the petri-dish, but it wasn't interesting.

Nothing was interesting at the moment; nothing was distracting enough.

He ran agitated fingers through his curls. He was sick of hearing about it all: nursery decorations, morning sickness, _the baby kicking_... the list went on. Pregnancy was such a tedious and inefficient process, and it was so very _dull._

And once the baby arrived… well, it was only destined to get worse; no more risk-taking; no more face-offs with master criminals. Sherlock would definitely be on his own with that after the baby arrived.

_On his own._

The flat was silent, the dust floating as if in slow motion in the still beam of the microscope. John's current absence was only rubbing salt into the wound. Inevitably Sherlock had been seeing a lot less of John since the wedding.

_You're hardly going to need me around, now that you've got a real baby on the way._

Sherlock adjusted the focus on the side of the microscope, and it was while he was doing that, that he noticed the white flesh of his arm out of the corner of his eye.

His own arm. That was distracting.

Definitely.

He paused, suddenly fascinated by his own skin. It was usually hidden under layers of well-tailored sleeves, hemmed in by cuff buttons and not easy to access. There was a good reason for that.

He examined it now with some trepidation, tracing along his veins. The marks were visible if you knew what to look for. How visible he wasn't sure. He always wore enough clothes that it wasn't put to the test. Often he thought that the lines were so faded that they didn't matter anymore, but right now they appeared stark to him; they appeared current, not just a relic of his past.

The first cigarette hadn't really done anything for him. That had been irritating.

Last night he'd dreamed about injecting; that had been irritating too. It seemed unfair that the thoughts could creep up on him when he had no defence at all. He tried to continue with his experiment but he found himself listlessly grinding to a halt.

He thought he should probably get rid of the drugs that he'd only just obtained; he should really do that. He would do it first thing in the morning, he decided. But since he had them, he might as well practice mixing the solution; at least it would give him something to do.

Another message appeared on Sherlock's phone, but Sherlock carried on, oblivious to it.

After he'd finished mixing, he picked up his violin, and tried out a few notes, before throwing it down again in frustration.

Finally he picked up the second cigarette from the table and lit it vehemently, smoking it to within an inch of its life.

…

Mary sat, calm and disinterested, in maternity jeans and a vest-top. There was too much flesh showing, her pale arms and shoulders distracting Moriarty and sparking ideas that spiralled wildly through his mind... but he would have to be patient.

After he'd finished the first cigarette he'd approached her with the glowing stub, resting his wrist on the chair arm next to her and holding the burning end _so close_ to her skin. She'd stayed completely still while he did it.

Finally he'd stubbed it out, staring wolfishly into her eyes at the same time, but she'd just thrown her gaze back at him contemptuously, the round black mark smouldering on the chair arm next to her hand.

"Aren't you adorable?" he'd said, secretly nonplussed. He slowly walked around her again, checking his phone fractiously and then scanning her frame for some sign of weakness. He'd been hoping for some movement from Sherlock by now, but his surveillance told him that Sherlock hadn't even left 221B yet.

His eyes were drawn to a scar across the top of Mary's shoulder and he traced it lingeringly with his finger.

"This is nice." he admired appreciatively, his voice like velvet. "Who gave you this?"

Mary didn't reply, her body flinching under his touch, even as her face showed no emotion.

"Well, it doesn't matter where you got the scar. You've got a few actually. That_ is_ interesting. Maybe you're not as ordinary as I'd thought."

He sat back down behind the desk, sliding the razor blade across the surface towards himself and picking it up as he did so. Placing his feet on the desk, he played with the blade; turning it round and round in his fingers. His unruffled appearance marred now from where he'd run his hands through his hair.

"Scars are fascinating", he said, musing. "You're obviously a collector. I could give you some more if you like", he said in a sing-song voice.

"You don't frighten me", Mary threw back at him, furious. "I used to shoot people like you."

"Oh, good. GOOD!" Moriarty exclaimed, surprised and delighted, taking his feet from the desk and leaning forward to laugh at her. "That's the spirit. All the better to hurt you with. Except...you know, you can try to escape if you want. You can try to get the better of me. Maybe you'd risk your own life to do that but…

"Oh!

"Oh no!

"Think of the _poor baby_. You can risk your own life. But you can't risk her life. If you try to escape, my sniper will shoot you. And the baby will _die_."

Moriarty made a pretend shocked face, before slapping the blade down on the desk and staring intently at her with his hands flat on the table.

"Which means... I can do pretty much what I want to with you until Sherlock gets here, and you'll just have to take it."

He leaned back and lit the second cigarette, inhaling deeply as if trying to calm himself.

"Isn't this cosy?" he said, smiling.


	3. Third cigarette

Sherlock groaned as Mrs, Hudson entered the flat with Mycroft in tow. There was a very noticeable pall of smoke in the room, Sherlock not having bothered to open the grimy windows to let some air in.

Mycroft gave Sherlock a long disapproving stare, as Mrs Hudson scuttled away.

Sherlock had just had time to throw the large Union Jack pillow onto the table, covering the items that were likely to evoke much more than just a scowl from Mycroft if he ever saw them.

"Brother mine", Mycroft began. "_Enjoying_ your evening?"

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked tiredly, guiltily, his mind, having been drowning in denial and self-pity all evening, now desperately trying to surface for air, so he could speak to Mycroft without appearing shifty.

"It has come to my attention, that with baby Watson due to arrive into the world in less than a month, you might be feeling… vulnerable. So I decided to pay my little brother a visit.

"It appears", Mycroft continued, coughing from the smoke, and wafting his hand more than was strictly necessary, "that my fears were not ill-founded."

"So", Sherlock replied dismissively, "I smoked a few cigarettes to make myself feel better. What of it, Mycroft? Everyone has vices. At least I didn't… for example…" Sherlock pretended to wrack his brains for inspiration "…eat a few _takeaways_ to make myself feel better." Sherlock regarded Mycroft's expanding middle meaningfully.

"I didn't eat…this is not about..." sputtered Mycroft.

"...and that's not nearly as bad as your other vices", Sherlock continued, interrupting.

"What _other_ _vices_", Mycroft spat with an expression of mildly veiled panic.

"Oh, sorry," apologised Sherlock with feigned innocence. "Was that supposed to be confidential?"

Mycroft cleared his throat hastily. "This is not about me", he said crossly. "You're sulking like a toddler. I'm concerned about the extent to which your habits might escalate, and since you appear entirely incapable of moderation, it seems that I will need to keep a close eye on you during the next few weeks."

Sherlock appeared for a moment to be agreeing with Mycroft, forcing his eyes not to glance at the Union Jack pillow lying chaotically in a heap of empty mugs and chemistry equipment.

"Like a toddler? Yes, you may be right", Sherlock admitted, nodding. Mycroft smiled at his brother's agreement as Sherlock carried on talking, "Like an older sibling, ousted by a new member of the family, trying eagerly to seek approval, but never managing to regain their former position as the apple of their parents' eye; no longer the centre of attention, even if the new sibling turns out to be the black sheep of the family; no longer important, no matter how hard they work, or what they achieve, or how much they struggle; desperate to please…"

Mycroft's face faded to a look of thunder as Sherlock continued his scathing monologue.

"Oh, wait", Sherlock suddenly stopped, "you said we weren't supposed to be talking about _you_. Sorry. I became confused for a moment."

"I don't have to listen to this", Mycroft shot daggers at Sherlock. "I'll see myself out".

Sherlock watched Mycroft turn his back on him.

Desperate for him to go.

Desperate for him to stay.

Sherlock waited until he heard the downstairs door bang shut. Then he picked up the Union Jack pillow, throwing it towards the chairs, and missing.

Mycroft's visit had poured cold reality on Sherlock's predicament, shaking him out of his numbness. He regarded the syringe where it lay on the table, with a mix of awe and hatred, before walking away and trying not to look at it.

One cigarette left.

Sherlock didn't hear his phone at all as he lit the last cigarette.

…

Moriarty watched his phone feverishly, wondering what was Sherlock _doing._ Why wasn't he attempting a rescue mission? The silence was unsettling.

Moriarty had stood down the small army he'd had on stand-by to intercept Sherlock before he got there, as apparently Sherlock hadn't even left his flat, and had made no calls to anyone from his mobile.

Moriarty had finished his second cigarette.

Mary was tough, he could see that; tougher than he had imagined. But she was only flesh and blood in the end, and when he'd burnt her, her eyes had welled up with tears; whether out of fear or just an involuntary consequence of the pain he couldn't tell. But the reaction had evoked a strange mixture of relief and sympathy in Moriarty, who had been starting to feel not quite in control of the situation.

"I'm disappointed", he lamented with her, "_disappointed_. Apparently Sherlock doesn't care about you at _all_. I suspected he might resent you a _bit_. You did steal his pet after all, and now you're breeding with him. I thought he might be _fairly_ cross with you, but he must really _hate_ you. I underestimated him. He's basically happy for me to finish you off.

"Oh well", Moriarty shrugged, matter-of-factly. "If he's not going to take the bait anyway, there's really no reason for me not to kill you. Except that, you have to admit, this has been quite fun." He smiled jovially, "It's a shame you can't come and work for me. You're no angel. I can see that."

He regarded her contemptuously, allowing his eyes to slide down to her belly. He was certain he saw the baby move, even through her skin. The movement triggered something in his mind and suddenly overcome with fury, he slammed the desk hard, railing at her.

"You know how pointless it all is; LIFE. Just so BORING. So tedious. Ordinary people are so STUPID. Carrying on like it all matters. Like it all _means _something. In a few years we'll all be DEAD. You'll be dead, I'll be dead; your _baby _will be dead. What's the POINT of all this? We're just WAITING for it to happen; just STAYING. You know that baby is just carbon. Just food for worms. I'd tell you to bear that in mind, except you're probably not going to make it that far; so you can abandon any HOPE you still have."

Mary had been looking away disinterested, but she spoke now.

"I need a wee."

Moriarty blinked a couple of times and then appeared incredulous, "Sorry?"

"I need a wee", she repeated deliberately, as if she was speaking to someone simple of mind.

"Do you think I'm STUPID", Moriarty shouted at her. "If I untie you now you're going to try to escape, because you know that no-one's coming for you".

"I'm not trying to escape", Mary replied huffily "I'm eight months pregnant and I've got a baby sitting on my bladder. I just really need a wee, that's all. It's important that pregnant women use the toilet frequently. Haven't you read any baby books? You're going to have your sniper pointed at me, anyway. I'm hardly going to do a runner in my condition, am I?"

Moriarty laughed hysterically. "Fine. Go and have a walk-about. I need to clear my head, anyway: I'm sick of looking at you. Try anything and I will kill you. Both."

He went back to the desk and picked up the razor blade from where it was lying, next to the one remaining cigarette, and approached her with a look of raw frustration. Holding the ultra-thin edge up against her wrist he began to slice through the gaffer tape, stretching the action out, and looking down at her with a mixture of greed and disgust for the length of the stroke. Mary looked away, her breathing steady, and avoiding eye contact.

Moriarty came around to the other side now, his breath laboured. The blade split the tape effortlessly, its flat surface sliding against her skin, and Moriarty's fingers brushing against hers. At his touch, Mary snatched her hand away, gasping as she caught her wrist on the edge of the blade, blood quickly pooling in the long, shallow gash and beginning to run down her arm.

Moriarty stood as if stunned, hypnotised by the red liquid that was beginning to drip down onto Mary's maternity jeans. He inhaled deeply, his head swimming, and tried to keep himself together. As he swayed, intoxicated at the sight of the blood, Mary gently slipped her other hand into Moriarty's trouser pocket.

...

Mary went to relieve her bladder, watched by the gunman, the little white box concealed under the elastic of her maternity jeans; and Moriarty lit his final cigarette as he paced the room, his mind spinning and fragmenting with chaos and darkness.


	4. Endgame

The third cigarette stub lay cold and useless in the petri-dish, and Sherlock stood still, with both hands on the table, not looking directly at the one remaining item. The frustration was so intense, it was as if his body had been taken over.

_That little nagging sensation. _

He exhaled, turning half away from the table, hands raking through his hair, thinking he should just get it done, and then none of it would matter anymore. But if he did it then it would mean he was still an addict, and the subsequent regret would be so severe that it would be unbearable.

_You're going to have to be strong to resist._

Maybe he could just go to bed and forget all about it… as if he ever could. But, the thought of walking away now was intolerable.

_You can't kill an idea, can you? Not once it's made a home… there._

Sherlock's mind was numb, a thick blanket of fog obscuring his mind palace; a blindness of his own making, that he was not willing to fix. He realised now that it had all been a charade, and that he was trapped. The game had only ever had one possible outcome, and nothing remained but to let it unfold.

Sherlock picked up the needle and it felt solid and familiar, like an old friend.

_An old friend._

Sherlock felt a pang of conscience as he thought of John, and how much his actions were betraying him. He wished John could be here now_._ He needed his faithful ally, who always had his back; who was always there to save him.

The thought was like a sudden glimmer of light through the parted mist, and as a drowning man clutches at a root on the riverbank, Sherlock sprang to his feet and snatched up his phone from where he'd left it on charge, before frowning with irritation and bewilderment as he realised that the phone was not his, but was, in fact, John's phone.

He scrabbled around trying to find his own phone, knocking books and ornaments to the floor in his mad frenzy, before stopping, exhausted and perplexed. He seized John's phone again but the battery was stone dead.

"Dammit, John, where are you?"

The world seemed to spin around him as he was filled with a slow rage against the universe and an overwhelming desire to hit back at a world that didn't give a damn about him. If there was no-one there to help him _even when he tried to do the right thing_ then what did it matter anyway?

Going back to the table he snatched up the needle, along with the solution he'd carefully prepared earlier that evening, and then he nestled into the arm chair, with his back to the door. Making no examination of his arm this time, he mechanically went through the familiar motions, remembering how well he had this routine down; tightening the strap around his upper arm and taking the end in his teeth…

The needle was just touching his skin, when a sudden crash made him drop the syringe. The door flew open and simultaneously he heard the sound of his brother's voice, speaking urgently.

"Sherlock, we have intelligence that Moriarty's men are watching the flat, you could be in grave danger if you were to leave…"

As Mycroft came around to the front of the chair, Sherlock stared back at him, his eyes wide and eerie, like a ghostly rabbit in a car's headlights.

"It's fortunate you came back, Mycroft", he said in a voice shot with relief and disappointment. "I've run out of cigarettes..."

…

John silently made his way over the wet lawn; the dark, abandoned manor house looming up starkly against the night sky in front of him. He knew she was in there, and his heart pounded furiously, with no thought other than to get to her as quickly as he could. Stealthily he picked his way around the back of the house, under cover of some ancient pine trees. He'd heard voices coming from far away as he'd scaled the wall to the grounds; guards maybe, but no-one seemed to be keeping a look-out around the house itself.

In one hand, John held his pistol, his finger ready on the trigger. In his pocket was Sherlock's phone, which he'd taken in a fit of frustration that morning. He was concerned that Mary would go into labour without being able to reach him, so he had picked up Sherlock's phone instead, with the intention of texting her, so she knew how to contact him, but then the chilling messages from Moriarty had started.

There were lights on in one area of the house only. John climbed through an empty hole which had once been a window, moving carefully over the broken window-sill. He crept along the corridor, past dusty paintings and the heads of dead animals on the walls, until he came to the only lit room, and his heart nearly stopped as he heard raised voices through the door and someone begging for mercy.

Furiously, John kicked the door open in a blind rage. Inside, his heavily pregnant wife had Moriarty pinned up against a bookcase in an arm-hold. Next to the door, the gunman wavered uselessly, unable to take the shot for fear of hurting the wrong person. In Mary's hand was the razor blade from the box she'd removed from Moriarty's pocket, and she held it to his throat, her eyes blazing with maternal aggression. There was blood running down her arm, but John wasn't sure where from.

John took his own gun and dealt with the gunman before he had time to react. Then he pointed the gun at Moriarty, still tangled up with his wife and unborn child.

Mary's voice came steely and determined, her eyes fixed on her tormentor, "He was going to hurt our baby, John, and now I'm going to _bloody kill him_. Because he needs to understand that there is nothing, NOTHING that I wouldn't do to protect her." Mary jerked Moriarty's arm tighter and began to press down on the blade. John stood motionless, his gun trained on Moriarty's head unable to do anything except take in the spectacle.

As John watched, Moriarty's look of terror began to flicker into one of amusement, and Mary's hand stalled, somehow unable to continue. Moriarty began to chuckle as he felt the blade's contact with his throat relax a minuscule amount.

"You can't do it now, can you?" Moriarty sneered at her, speaking slowly.

"_You can't do this in front of him. _

"_Because_ _he won't love you when you've finished", _Moriarty hissed at her. "If you do this, every time he looks at you from now on, he'll see a woman who _kills people."_

Mary's eyes seemed to dawn with awareness as her hand came slowly away from Moriarty's throat, her intense focus on him melting as her eyes glanced sideways at John.

"It's a shame really, Moriarty continued, in a voice of mock consolation "because for a minute there I really thought you were going to do it."

The razor blade fell from Mary's hand, as she stepped away from Moriarty, her hand instead going protectively to her belly. There was a split second where her eyes met John's, and in that moment a loud noise overhead tore into the silence, indicating backup had arrived.

John's concentration broke, as Moriarty pressed something on the bookcase behind him, which swallowed him up swiftly like a trap-door, and in an instant Moriarty had disappeared. Mary scrabbled frantically at the panels, to try to follow Moriarty, but the book case was unrelenting.

John had come over to her, trying to embrace her and looking down worriedly at the blood. Finally she seemed to see him properly for the first time and the waves of shock fell from her as she allowed him to take her in his arms and hold her there for a long time.

"I'm OK, I'm OK. _She's OK_", Mary finally said, and kissed him to reassure herself, as much as him, that she really was, and then she stepped back, John gently taking her hand, angry and pained at the sight of his wife's injuries.

"It's fine, it's just a scratch", she shook her head, smiling with relief now. "Don't worry about me. I've had a lot worse." She smiled wryly, remembering.

John brushed her face with his hand, smiling at his brave and brilliant soul-mate, and trembling with relief. Mary still seemed agitated though, as she struggled to say what was on her mind.

"I'm glad you're here", she finally said.

"I'm glad I'm here too", John returned genuinely.

"No", said Mary emphatically, looking straight at him. "I mean I'm _really _glad you're here, because I'm having contractions. I think I'm in labour."

John's eyes widened, and suddenly he looked _terrified._

…

**A/N: Many thanks to ChucksterinDowntonAbbey, Lampchairpineapple, basswall2, crexy, gejlir, kimberlyboo3, liliflowerxoxo, mari12345, mickeydawn995, paulaarushing, shadajoserj, starsofimagination, trenchcoatandtie, yerawitchayesha, Gwen Maddens, AngryHobbit, Hobbit, GeorgyannWayson, Guest and Ennui Enigma. It's great to see some familiar names, and I hope you had as much fun as I did! Please take care, everyone.**


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